Wednesday, May 31, 2006
It has been too hot to formulate a coherent thought, and as such, I cannot seem to come up with a topic that will make for a post of decent length.
Instead, I've decided to make this a Post of Miscellany. It will be disjointed and probably utterly appalling. Aren't you excited? I bet you are. Or not. Whatever.
1.) Here is a picture of my desk at work:
Yes, those are my walls. They are blood red. No, I did not paint them that way. It was like that when I got there. I thought maybe it would give me a headache when I first saw it, but it turns out that the glaring red is actually soothing. It seems to calm my inner child or something. At the very least, it doesn't clash with my homicidal rage, which so happens to be a complementary shade of red.
Wouldn't do to have my homicidal rage not match my walls. Someone could get hurt.
2.) We had another team meeting today. I didn't have to sit at the Plague Table because I am only vaguely sick now.
So, we are talking. Coworker #3 somehow ends up talking about a friend of hers, who is apparently a freelance writer. This is how the conversation went:
Coworker #3: He's a freelance automotive writer.
Boss: Who does he write for?
Coworker #3: African Americans on wheels.
There was silence for a few beats, then:
Zombie: BA HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.
I laughed, y'all, and I could not help it. In fact, I did not just laugh. No, I howled. 'Til I cried. I had no idea what the hell "African Americans on wheels" was, but it sure as hell sounded funny, and also produced a mental image of a herd of black people with wheels for feet careening down the street.
So my howling set everyone else off, and we're all laughing like mad.
We finally calm down a bit, from laughing hysterically to occasionally snorting and chuckling.
Boss: What's that like...an African American motorcycle gang?
Coworker #1: Black people in wheelchairs?
Zombie: Black people on roller skates?
Boss: Don't be stupid, black people don't roller skate.
Zombie: Oh yeah. Sorry.
Anyway, it turns out that African Americans on Wheels is an automotive magazine, geared towards African Americans. It's a real magazine. I found a crappy picture of a cover.
It's a shame about the wheels-for-feet thing. Because that would be cool. It's also a shame about the rollerskating thing, because as we all know from The Warriors, gangs on roller skates are fucking badass.
Stereotypes are fun!
3.) I love Hello Kitty.
Ahh, gratuitous cute. Gotta love it.
Monday, May 29, 2006
It is too hot to post anything important today (like I ever post anything important, hah!).
I think the sun wants to be my boyfriend. Because it is all over my ass. All. Over.My.Ass.
It is rather painful and annoying and I am all like, "Okay, sun, I get that you dig me and my ass and all that, but really, can you back off a little? Just a tad? Because I'm fucking melting over here, and the humidity doesn't help. And seriously, this is May? In Michigan? It should still be snowing? It should not be 85 with 9 Billion Percent humidity, should it? No. It should not. That should be in at least July or something. In Michigan, we have four seasons and they are: Snow, More Snow, A HELL OF A LOT OF SNOW, Slightly Less Snow. And maybe one day of OH GOD IT IS SO HOT I WILL DIE. Certainly not three days in a row of that. In May. So if you're confused, sun, I understand, but listen to President Bush when he says there's no such thing as global warming, and get off my ass. So, please understand when I say it's not you, it's me. Because I don't like being so hot. Okay, okay, I'll be honest, it is you. Get off my ass."
And the sun is like, "Glare, glare, glareglareglare."
The sun needs to know it will never be my boyfriend if it keeps up this whole not listening to me thing. It should know that if it wants to be my boyfriend, it at least has to put up the illusion of listening to me. Being all over my ass in such a miserable fashion is not a great way to start off a meaningful relationship, seriously.
Hear that, sun? You have been warned.
Sunday, May 28, 2006
Death Lawn: The Lawn That Eats
I mentioned how the Water Authority came and dug up my front yard to do something to the pipes. In the process of doing something to the pipes, they managed to nick the water main, which meant more digging.
When they were done, they left several huge holes and piles of crap everywhere. It looked like an archaeological dig. I kept waiting for the kids to unearth some dinosaur bones or something.
Then, lo and behold, the other day, while I was at work, the Water Authority showed up and cleaned up their mess. They left us with a big patch of shiny new dirt that I will eventually put grass seed on. Like so:
That is the view from my front stoop. You might think this is boring, but it's not. Really. It's not. See, right after they gave us the shiny new dirt, it rained. And the shiny new dirt turned into a bog. And my children immediately went to play in it.
And then there was a crisis that involved Meredith and her favorite flipflops and the Roommate and I don't know what else, since I didn't witness it all.
Meredith came inside and downstairs, shrieking that the yard ate her shoes.
"The yard ate my flipflop."
Roommate cleared this up for me. Apparently while playing in the bog, the lawn started to eat my daughter's feet. Her flipflops were sucked from her feet and dragged under.
He managed to retrieve one:
But the other one is lost forever. It has been absorbed into the depths of the lawn, never to be seen again.
You can see how I might find this interesting. I am thinking about what else to throw out there next time it rains. It could be a convenient place to get rid of all this junk I have to get rid of before I move. It could be a convenient place to hide the bodies of all those that piss me off. I've even contemplated chucking the children out there while they sleep. The Death Lawn would erase any traces of evidence. This is handy!
I may never put any grass seed down.
Saturday, May 27, 2006
Two and a Half Hours in the 9th Circle of Hell
My kids were invited to a birthday party for one of Asher's classmates today. The party was held in the 9th Circle of Hell -- I mean, Chuck E. Cheese. Same difference.
My son has been talking about this party for two weeks straight now. "How will we get to the party, Mom?" "Where is it? Chuck E. Cheese? OH MY GOD!" "Is it time for the party yet?" Etc. Drove me nuts.
So, both kids were very excited about this. I was not as excited, truth be told. Sitting in a giant room full of flashing lights, robot mice and screaming children that do not belong to me, eating mediocre pizza and pretending I am decent folks when talking to other parents, is patently not my idea of a good time. Especially since I still don't have that bourbon IV I've been desperately wanting.
But I try to be a good mother, so I sucked it up and went to the party. Asher was very happy to be there, as evidenced in the following photo:
Actually, that is his happy face. Really. He was overjoyed to be there. He's just a very solemn little boy and was not blessed with the ability to make very many different facial expressions. His facial expressions run the gamut from this one, which is Very Happy, to Slightly Perturbed to Pissed Off. They all look about the same, though.
Meredith, on the other hand, well, you'd think she'd just had a big ol' snort of coke. The child would not stand still and spent the entire time running around like a maniac, "Look at that! Look at this! Why's that robot dressed up like a mouse? ROBOTS DON'T WEAR SHIRTS. SHEESH. Let's play this game! OH MY GOD, MOM, THEY HAVE RIDES. This is the best place ever!"
Here is Rasputin playing Whack-a-Mole:
I will admit I perked up a bit when I remembered that all Chuck E. Cheese establishments are equipped with the Skee Ball.
Friday, May 26, 2006
Things Zombie Has Had Hollered At Her
I mentioned in the previous post that men sometimes holler things at me when I am walking down the street.
This does not piss me off, for the most part, because, really, it's sometimes entertaining.
Sure, I get the usual "HEEYYYY!" and "WOOOO!" and suchlike.
Sometimes I even get the odd Mexican in a low rider, "OYE, MAMACITA!!! AIEEEEEE!"
But sometimes it's much, much better.
One day, I am walking down the road in Sunny Ypsilanti, on my way to the doctor. I am minding my own business.
A car pulls up next to me. The window rolls down. I think someone is going to ask for directions, so I look over.
The driver leans over to the window and says, politely, "Excuse me."
"Yes?" I say, still thinking he's going to ask for directions to somewhere.
"Where you going?" he asks.
"Er...this way," I reply and start walking again. Not directions.
"Wait," he says, and pulls the car up, following me.
"I just want to talk to you."
"I am busy. I am walking. I have places to go. Go away."
"Where you going?"
"None of your business. Leave me alone."
"Oh," he says.
I am still walking, mind you, and he is still slowly rolling along beside me.
"Hey!" he says.
I stop, annoyed. "WHAT?"
"Can I hit that coochie?" he inquires. In a conversational tone, as if he is remarking upon the weather.
"Uh...what?" Did I just hear that? Surely my ears doth deceive me...
"I said, can I hit that coochie?"
"I thought that's what you said..."
"Well, can I?" He is earnest. His face is shiny.
"You sure?" he asks, politely.
"Well, okay," he says, crestfallen. The window rolls back up, he drives away.
Skip forward to another day, when I am walking to the bus stop. I cross a small side-street, where a cop car is sitting.
The window rolls down.
"Miss?" says the cop.
"Uh oh," I think. "What've I done now?" Cops make me nervous for reasons we won't get into right now. I think if a cop is talking to me, it's because I'm about to be Accused of (Insert Random Crime Here) Most Foul.
"Yes, Officer?" I say, going over to the car.
The cop is wearing one of those Smokey Bear hats, and mirrored sunglasses, and has a Cop Mustache. You know the one.
"You're pretty," says Smokey Bear.
"Er...thank you?" I say.
There is an awkward silence, as I am not expecting to be told I am pretty by Smokey Bear. I am expecting to get arrested for something.
He smiles at me with big, shiny white teeth.
"Would you like to go out to dinner with me tomorrow night?" inquires Smokey.
"Well, I see a pretty girl like you and I wonder to myself, 'Self,' I wonder, 'Would that little lady like to go out to dinner with you tomorrow night, do you think?' And then I think, 'I don't know, Self, let's find out.' And that's what I'm trying to find out."
I am becoming increasingly alarmed.
If I decline Smokey's offer, he will be angry. His mustache seems to indicate a well of hatred and violence simmering below the surface, straining to break free at any provocation. Also, he appears to talk to himself and have no problems with announcing this to other people, and that can't be right.
If I decline, will he arrest me? Will I be charged with Resisting Oddly-Mustached Cops and Their Offers of Food Consumption?
So I say the only thing you can say, in situations like these:
"But...you look like Burt Reynolds."
Zombie! SHUT UP!
"Oh, well...er," says Smokey.
I mentally kick myself 9 billion times. Yet another prime example of my Brain to Mouth Filter malfunctioning.
"I am sorry," I say, quickly, trying to cover. "I cannot go out with you. I have children. And...I don't have anyone to watch them. So. I am...uh...very flattered, Officer, but I have to say no. Because of the children. You understand. Thank you, though. Really."
"Weeeell," says Smokey, "that's all right, honey. That's just fine. Thank you, anyway."
"No, no, thank you, Officer. You have a nice day now."
And I hurry off.
There was also a time when I was walking home from the convenience store, many moons ago, when I still lived over on LeForge, which is a Street of Crime and Death and Other Unsavory Things. I was walking at night, because I am smart like that.
Hey, I needed a Cherry Coke real bad.
Anyway, I was wearing this t-shirt, a Jim Rose Circus t-shirt, and it says "FREAK" in huge white letters on the back. I love that shirt. Wonder where it is...
Anyway, yeah. So, I am walking and I hear someone walking behind me. I walk faster. The someone behind me speeds up, too.
I keep walking.
"Crap," I think. I am going to get raped and murdered and tossed into the Huron River because I just had to have a fucking Cherry Coke at 2 in the morning. Good job, genius.
"What?" I say, without stopping.
"What's your shirt say?"
"What, can't you read?" I ask.
Zombie! SHUT UP!
"I think it says 'freak,'" says the dude behind me.
"Yes, that is correct," I say, still walking.
"Well," he says. "Are you?"
"Am I what?"
"Yes. But not in the ways you're thinking, I'm sure..."
"Can I find out?" he asks.
"What sort of freak I am?"
"If you're a fan of galoshes, weiner dogs and Boy Scout troops, I guess we could work something out..."
I thought that was when the raping/murdering/tossing into the Huron was going to happen, but I must've freaked him out, because he crossed to the other side of the street and kept giving me wide-eyed looks.
So, yes, these are the things that happen to me. Would you like to be me for a day?
Thursday, May 25, 2006
Thoughts on the Tuna Christ
I love the Interwebs. The Interwebs is a wonderful place, full of wonderful things for me to gawk at, like this:
The Interwebs is also a wonderful place for me to have wonderful conversations, such as when Hunter and I decide that the only way to save the human race is to airdrop inflatable fucksheep stuffed full of chocolate bunnies over Iraq, or when Indigenous Insurgent and I realize that he's gonna hafta choke a bitch because that's what bitches need, or when Skippy informs me that he's going to have to have four ribs removed so he'll never again have to deal with Unclean Bitches and their "Love me, love me" and "It hurts when you punch me in the face that hard" whining or when El Bastard orders me to bend over for Jesus.
It's very Deep and Meaningful and Important. Especially the bending over part.
There is a Dark Underbelly to the Interwebs, though. Sometimes, I see things on the Interwebs that make me want to bash my head on my desk repeatedly. Sometimes, I read something so stupid, so inane, so badly thought-out and repulsive, I want to scream.
But I don't scream. Because I have a blog! And that is what blogs are for.
I came across this via Skippy and Joan. And I just had to offer my thoughts.
It is no secret that I think women are getting too uppity. Gone are the days when men could safely club us over the head and drag us around by our hair without getting labelled "mean" or "abusive" or "woman-hater" or "foul scum produced by the patriarchial system which has wrecked the earth, ohmygoddess." And I think that's a damned shame. I don't know about y'all, but I would much rather have my ass spanked by a forceful man and ordered to get in the kitchen and knit a pie to earn my keep than go to work every day and be all independent and self-sufficient and empowered and whatever-the-fuck.
Feminists have ruined my life, I tell you what.
But that is not why I hate Laura over at I'm Not a Feminist, But.... No, I hate Laura because she's stupid. And I just can't tolerate stupid, even while I'm bending over for Jesus.
Consider the post linked above. Let's examine the choice bits, shall we?
Do you know what's really, really not funny about hate? That, apparently, feminists all hate men, and yet all the evidence points to the opposite: men hate feminists. Not only that; men hate women. Men hate me.
I am completely convinced that men hate Laura, but probably not for the reasons she thinks. I hate Laura, too, so it's not only men. If there's anyone out there that doesn't hate Laura, I'd be very, very surprised.
Let's find out why:
1. Men hate me when they rape. I am lucky enough not to have been raped (yet), but I still feel that hate.
Men hate Laura when they rape. All men that rape hate Laura. They specifically hate Laura when they rape, if I have read this correctly.
While it's unfortunate that Laura has not been raped (yet), I am going to take a wild stab in the dark and guess that no rapist on the planet has ever thought, "Man, I hate that blogger Laura and because I hate her, I am going to go rape some random woman. Damn. There's one now..."
The "(yet)" part gets me, though, because it is as if her getting raped is a certainty. Something she knows is going to happen some day, because, obviously, she is likely to be raped.
Or maybe I have that wrong. Maybe it's a hopeful "(yet)," because once she's been raped, then she really has a reason to scream about what horrible beasts men are. Then she can become a card-carrying I've-Been-Fucked-By-The-Patriarchy-How-'Bout-You? Feminazi cult member. That's hot.
It is very hard to piss and moan convincingly about the System when the System hasn't (yet) fucked you in the ass.
I feel it when I know that, all around the world, women are being raped right this minute, right this second.
Well, dayum, who needs a vibrator when you're psychic like that?
Men hate me when they use porn. They hate me when they come to my sisters being abused and raped.
Yes, men hate Laura when they look at porn. Because porn is the Ultimate Evil, unlike, say, actually going out and doing the abusing and raping or something...
They hate me when they reduce me to two hands and three holes.
Hey, Skippy, this woman needs you to hold her like a bowling ball real bad.
They hate me when they deny the harm that porn does to women.
Hmm. I am a woman and I have never been harmed by porn. A man looking at porn does not bother me in the slightest (unless said man is in a relationship with me and looking at porn instead of fucking me. Then I might be annoyed.) and I am unsure how exactly naked pictures harm women, unless said women have been forced into posing or something.
I guess I am denying that porn harms women, too, so I hate Laura.
Men hate me when they type 'rape virgens' into google, or 'cut breasts fuck', or 'three men brutally rape woman'.
I guess I have to agree with Laura here. Men hate me when they type "rape virgens" into Google, too. Because it's spelled V-I-R-G-I-N-S, you gotards, and I am just pedantic like that.
Men hate me when they harrass women in clubs, on the streets, in the park, in bars, on the beach, at the bus stop.
Instead of thinking men hate you when they do this, Laura, have you ever considered feeling sorry for them? I get honked at and harassed when I am walking down the road sometimes and it has never occurred to me that the men doing that were hating Laura (or me, for that matter). I just thought it was annoying and sad.
If you'll notice, it's never decent guys that do that. It's not the guys you want to date. It's not the guys you want to fuck. It's the greasy, sweaty, oddly-mustached guys that do that. And do you know WHY they do that? 1) They don't know any better, and 2) they are pathetic.
So why should it bother you? Why not say, "Aw, fuck off!" and be done with it? It is not worth curling up into the fetal position about. Seriously.
Men hate me when they buy lads mags and calculate how much their girlfriend costs per fuck.
I am not sure what this means exactly. Is there a calculator in a lads' mag that allows said lad to tally up how much he's spent on dinner, flowers, cab fare/gas, cell phone minutes/text messages, therapy for having had the misfortune of dating Laura, etc, to find out how much you're worth per fuck? Because really, if it's not balancing out, I don't think the lad should be fucking you anymore. Unless you give FANTASTIC head or something, I think he's probably been spending too much.
Men hate me when they ask their girlfriends to get a boob job to spice up their sex life.
I wonder how many men actually do that. I was under the impression that most men saw breasts, any sort of breasts, and immediately went to Happy Land.
Most men do not worry about what our bodies look like as much as we do, Laura, hate to tell you. Plastic surgery is not an evil thing fueled by MEN wanting women to have the perfect body, but by WOMEN wanting to have the perfect body. Our weight issues, our my-nose-is-too-big issues, our my-tits-aren't-big/small-enough issues are just that. OUR issues.
Men hate me when they make malicious, sexist jokes.
Oh, silly. Those are funny. I know I am enamored each time El Bastard refers to me as "his ham wallet." What girl wouldn't be? Well, other than Laura, I mean. But we've already established that she's more than a bit dim.
Men hate me when they attempt to justify/ deny /defend any of the above.
Yes, because anyone that disagrees with you must just be a hater. Obviously. Laura is just like Jesus, hated the world over and persecuted and crucified for being nothing more than the Messenger of Truth. She's just like Christ. Only tuna-flavored.
I suggest we build a church right now.
Now, if I may be serious for a moment (but only a moment, I promise):
This brand of "feminism" annoys me. Men do this, men do that. If women do something stupid, it's obviously because men make them. Blah blah fucking blah.
Blaming men for our own shortcomings is a cop-out. Convenient, sure, but a cop-out nonetheless.
Are there some asshole guys out there? Sure there are. But there are a hell of a lot of decent men out there, too, that are patently not hating Laura every second of every day.
Are there some things out there that are "not fair"? Sure there are. But will whinging away about them on your little blog change anything? No. You put your head down and you put your shoulder to the wheel and you figure out how to change what you don't like. If you can't do that, shut up.
And I can certainly assure you, Laura, that talking like that will make sure men DO hate you...and then you can add a number 11 to your little list:
11. Men hate me because I'm an overbearing, obnoxious cunt that can't shut up.
Perhaps that should've been the entire list to begin with. It certainly would've saved us all the trouble.
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
Despite still having the Ebola, I went back to work today.
We had a lunchtime meeting. I like those, as they generally include Chinese food I do not have to pay for.
Anyway, so at this meeting, I shamble in, being all suffering from the Ebola as I am, and Boss looks at me.
Boss: You sit back there.
Boss: Sit back there.
Zombie: At the table at the back?
Zombie: Oh. Don't want to catch my bubonic plague, do you?
Zombie: Hmm. Does this mean I am a Plague Monkey?
Zombie: Will y'all start calling me Typhoid Mary now?
Zombie: This is discrimination. That's what this is. Y'all are persecuting me on account of the fact that I'm a Plague Monkey. I will call the ACLU. I will call Judge Judy. I will call SOMEONE. Next thing I know, someone's gonna start shouting "BRING OUT YER DEAD!" and y'all are going to start dragging me out there to the cart and I'm gonna be all "I'm not dead yet!" and you're gonna be all --
Boss: What on earth are you talking about?
Zombie: It is not me talking. It is the Ebola.
Boss: You're making my head hurt again.
And off to my Plague Table I went.
It was kinda cool, being a Plague Monkey. I hope I have to sit at the back of the room all alone again tomorrow, if we have a meeting, because if I'm back there, everyone forgets I am there until I pipe in with something completely inappropriate ("If we get the owner a MySpace to promote the new launch, he will have to be an emo, because only emos are on MySpace, and I think the fact that Owner is bald and doesn't have any hair to do that flippy thing precludes him from emo and MySpace altogether. That's a law." "Zombie's Real Name, what on earth are you talking about?") and also I can doodle in my notebook ("Zombie + Jesus Christ = BFF! 4eva!" "WWFSMD?") and if anyone looks at me, they'll think I am paying attention/industriously taking notes.
I like that.
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
In Which Zombie Has EVEN MORE Funs, As If Such a Thing Were Even Possible.
It was an interesting weekend here at Casa del Zombie. If by "interesting" we mean "absolutely and utterly horrifying," that is.
Sunday, I am sitting here, fiddling around on the computer and my daughter is playing behind me. I hear a thump and a scream, which isn't unusual, because, as we have discussed before, my daughter is Very Graceful.
So I turn around and am confronted with this:
Well, okay, no. That is what I would've seen if my daughter was actually Sissy Spacek and in a film adaptation of a Stephen King novel.
It's strikingly similar, though, since my daughter had somehow managed to whack her face on the floor and slice her forehead open while simultaneously giving herself one hell of a bloody nose.
I have never seen so much blood in my life, y'all, and I have given birth to two children and been in numerous car accidents.
Anyway, I was good. I did not panic. I ran over to her, picked her up and ran her upstairs, crooning nonsense like "It's okay! Chill out! Just a little scratch! Fix you all up!" while thinking nonsense like "Her face came off! How did her face come off? Oh man! Face! Came! Off! HORROR!"
Once I got her to the kitchen, I grabbed many paper towels and cleaned her up. Upon clearing the blood away from her face, I found that it was just a small cut, nothing to get stitches about, and felt better. See, because while I remember that headwounds bleed like a biotch, it's different when it's your kid's head that's bleeding like a biotch. Then you think her face has come off and what will you do with a kid with no face? The neighbors will talk.
So, after I got the bleeding to stop, I changed her clothes and sent her outside. Then I sat down and cried. Because that is what you do when you think your kid's face has come off.
After that, I caught Ebola.
I am sick as a dog. (Why do we say "sick as a dog"? Do dogs get Ebola? I know not.) My fever has finally broken, but I had a temp of 102 for two days straight, and that was LAME.
See, when I get sick, it can't be normal, because I have the FMS. So what would be, like, you coughing twice is like pneumonia for me. What would be the sniffles for you is Ebola for me.
A heretofore unknown side effect of Ebola is that it ruins my comedic timing. Absolutely wrecks it.
Witness the following conversation between myself and my Boss on MSN yesterday morning.
Boss: Is Secretary in the office?
Zombie: I dunno. I am not there. I am sick.
Boss: What's the matter with you?
Zombie: I have bird flu.
Zombie: Okay, okay. It's not bird flu. Perhaps it is the monkey pox.
Boss: WHAT? Where would you have picked up something like THAT?
Zombie: Okay. It is not the bird flu or the monkey pox. It is Ebola.
Zombie: I am joking? Ha ha? Funny?
Boss: Not so much.
Note to Self: Do Not Tell Boss You Have Ebola Unless You Really Do, Because She is Not Amused.
But this does not stop me from announcing that I have Ebola/bird flu/monkey pox to OTHER people, though, does it? Oh no. It does not.
Meredith's School Secretary: You look rough. Are you okay?
Zombie: Just a touch of the avian flu. No worries.
School Secretary: Uhm...
Zombie: Okay, it is not bird flu. It is monkey pox.
School Secretary: That's all right then, I guess?
Meredith's Teacher: Do you need to go to the hospital or something? You look...bad.
Zombie: No, it is okay. It is just the Ebola acting up again.
Zombie: I keed, I keed. I am fine.
Can't a girl joke about a little hemorrhagic fever without people getting all pissy about it? Sheesh.
So I am still home from work today, so as not to spread the Ebola to the rest of the people at the office, which I am sure they all appreciate. I feel marginally better, so I suppose I shall return to work tomorrow.
I might wear one of those hospital masks and some rubber gloves, though. Just to freak them out.
Saturday, May 20, 2006
In Which Zombie Has Many Funs
I managed to almost finish mowing the lawn today. I have this little bit next to the neighbors' driveway that needs done, but the neighbors had to inconvenience me by being out in said driveway, working on a truck, and while I personally wouldn't have minded mowing along anyway and spraying them with wet grass clippings, I thought they might not be happy about it.
Also, it gave me an excuse to stop mowing. Because the mowing? Don't really like it. Especially since the mower stalls every five feet and there's something resembling an archaeological dig in the middle of my front yard and it's flippin' hard to mow around it.
You know what I needs me?
I needs me a gardener.
Preferably one named Francisco or Armando or Somethingo that also happens to be shirtless.
Yeah. That's what I need.
I could lounge on my front stoop with a cocktail, wearing a headscarf like Jackie O and fantastic sunglasses and shiny sandals and be all like, "You missed a spot, fuckwit. What do you think I am paying you less than minimum wage for? Hmmm? I expect perfection. Perfection."
Hunter suggests a limbless gardener instead of a shirtless gardener, and now I am entertaining the idea of a gardener that is both shirtless AND limbless, but while that would be hot, I do not see how he can do the weedwhacking without any arms. And really, I must be practical about hiring my imaginary gardener, mustn't I? While it would be nice and easy to succumb to such flights of fancy as limbless gardeners, I really need one that can do the weedwhacking.
See, what it is - it's that I need a man to do stuff for me. Since I lack a penis, I cannot do technical work, and also apparently cannot do yardwork, either.
Yesterday as I was fighting with the Mower What Stalls, a dude from across the street shouts at me.
"Er...yes?" I do not like being referred to as "Miss" so I was immediately Not In the Mood. It is like when I buy a case of beer at the 7-11 and the teenaged cashier calls me "ma'am" and doesn't card me. It makes me feel old and bitter.
Well, I'm always bitter, so I guess we should just leave it at "old."
Anyway. Dude comes across the street. "Are you having trouble?"
"Uhm, I'm fine. The grass, it is long. The mower, it is stupid. You know."
"Well, honey, where is your husband? He should be doin' this work, not you."
I push my sunglasses up onto the top of my head and regard this man, who is overweight and sweaty and reeking of white trash and still has the balls to give me the Hey-There-Little-Lady treatment.
"My...husband?" I arch a brow.
"Yes, well, I seen yer kids runnin' around, so I assumed..."
"Ah. I do not have a husband. And the grass won't mow itself. I think I can handle it. But thank you for your condescen--- er, concern." I smile sweetly and pull my sunglasses back down.
For real, y'all, I am getting t-i-r-e-d of the Hey-There-Little-Lady treatment.
Anyway, so I mowed and cleaned the kitchen partly and visited with a friend who cannot stop bringing my children presents (though today he brought me a mouse puppet - it is very cute) and that was the extent of my day. The weather remained lovely throughout which is cheerful-making, especially what with the week and a half straight rainstorm.
I think we can add Very Boring to the list of things that I am. So now we have Very Boring, Very Graceful and Quite Possibly Retarded.
Christ, I am awesome.
Friday, May 19, 2006
She Gives Good Universal Scream*
*Note: Again with the title not having anything to do with the content - sorry, Acid Bath this time.
Today, it wasn't raining.
This is news, since it has been raining up here in Sunny Time Michigan for the past week and a half straight.
Do you know what happens when it rains for a week and a half straight in the spring in Sunny Time Michigan?
The grass grows.
And you can't mow it because it's wet.
So today, when it finally wasn't raining, I knew I had better try to mow before it started raining again.
And this, my friends, was a pain in my ass.
No, the wheel managed to stay on this time, so that's okay.
But do you know how high grass gets after a week and a half of rain? It was a fucking disaster. It was so high...it was almost as tall as my daughter. Granted, she is Very Short, but still. This is a lawn emergency we're talking about, people. A lawn emergency.
So, I get home from work and prepare myself for mowing. Sunglasses? Check. Ratty tank top? Check. Jeans? Oops. The only jeans that vaguely fit me right now are the nice ones I wear to work. This leaves me with the rest of them, which are increasingly too big. So I put a pair on anyway, and did that handy white trashy trick of rolling the waist up several times til it sort of wanted to stay on.
It didn't work that well, but it kept me from being obscene, so I guess that's all right.
Anyway, I only got part of the lawn done. Because the mower? Kept stalling? Every five feet. On account of the grass being so high and also still wet because it rained for a week and a half straight.
While mowing? Out of the clear blue fucking sky?
My son? He hollers over the roar of the mower, "MOM! MOM! MOOOOOOM!"
So I holler back, thinking it must be important, "WHAT? WHAT'S WRONG?"
"MOM! ALL MY FRIENDS THINK YOU ARE FAT!"
"GEE, THANKS, ASHER."
"WELL, IT'S TRUE, MOM."
So to cheer myself up, I bought shoes. Because I am a girl. And that is what girls do. Oh, and skirts, to combat the pants problem.
Anyway, I am half asleep now, in a sated shoegasm manner. I will blog longer tomorrow. Probably also about nonsense.
Thursday, May 18, 2006
We Do Away With Your Kind*
* Note: Title of post has nothing whatsoever to do with content of post. I just happened to be listening to Dimmu Borgir at the time of this writing.
As mentioned before, I am a Very Graceful person. If by "Very Graceful" we actually mean "Not At All Graceful and Quite Possibly Retarded," that is.
I am prone to limping, falling down, running into stuff, dropping stuff and bruising myself on a regular basis. Part of this is due to the fibromyalgia and part of it is due to the fact that I am just klutzy. People of This Earth: Do Not Let Zombie into Your China Shops. You Have Been Warned.
It is becoming apparent that I have passed this gene on to my daughter. Three times this week alone have I gotten accident reports from her school because she's managed to mangle herself in some way or another.
First, she ran into the couch in her classroom and skinned her knees.
Then, she ran into another kid, which caused her to bite her tongue.
Yesterday, she pulled a chair - with another child sitting upon it - over on top of herself, resulting in a knot on her forehead the size of Kansas.
She already bears a striking physical resemblance to me (poor child) and I feel bad that she has inherited my Quite Possibly Retardedness on top of it. Perhaps I will put her in ballet, where she can be forcibly taught to be Very Graceful and thus not end up crashing into varied objects when she gets to be my age.
Then again, she'd probably make a better professional wrestler. Rick Flair, watch out. Here comes The Mimi of Doom/Death/Destruction/Care Bears. Wooooo!
My daughter is small but mighty. When she makes her wrath known, her voice can shatter glass in regions as far away as Germany. If a window in your home suddenly explodes for no apparent reason, it will be safe to conclude that it is because my daughter is pissed off about something. That something could be anything, really, but probably has to do with not being able to wear her flip-flops to school ("But, Mooooooom, I LIKE THEM!") or that I will not let her watch "Number Three Harry Potter" for the millionth time in a row ("But, Mooooooom, I LIKE NUMBER THREE HARRY POTTER!").
When she was but a wee lass of 2, her father took both kids to the park. He came back, laughing his ass off. Apparently, The Mimi of Doom/Death/Destruction/Care Bears wanted to go down the slide, but another girl, who was perhaps 7 years old and 900 times my daughter's size, would not get out of the way. The older girl taunted my daughter and refused to move.
That was her first mistake. The Mimi of Doom/Death/Destruction/Care Bears will not be defied.
My daughter hauled off and managed to somehow kick the girl in the stomach - hard - knocking her to the ground. "I said MOVE!" she announced, in her best Der Fuhrer voice.
The other girl began to cry. That was her second mistake. The Mimi of Doom/Death/Destruction/Care Bears can smell weakness a mile away and will not tolerate it.
"Crybaby!" she hollered and proceeded to walk over the girl on the ground and slide down the slide, calling cheerfully to her father, "Hi, Daddy! I sliding!"
If her career as a professional wrestler does not work out, she does have other options, too. Meredith's skills also include that of being able to incite riots at a moment's notice.
For example, a few weeks ago, I arrived at her school to pick her up. Her teacher pulled me aside, "Uhm, we have a problem."
"What did she do?"
"She...well...she started a riot, basically."
"That's my girl!"
"Er...that's terrible! How did this happen?"
"She did not want to clean up before naptime. She stomped her foot and shouted, "NO!" at me. Then she looked around at the other kids, and all of a sudden, they were all stomping their feet and shouting "NO!" It was pandemonium."
"Hmm. I knew I should've named her Che."
"Nothing. I will talk to her about it."
My daughter, the Pint-Sized Revolutionary. I think she and Chairman Mao might've gotten along famously.
Today, she pulled a similar stunt, refusing to wash her hands after lunchtime, which resulted in a chain reaction of five other children also refusing to wash their hands. There was apparently much hollering and other general jackassery.
"Uhm, we have a problem again."
"What did she do this time?"
"She wouldn't wash her hands and then five other kids wouldn't, either. There was yelling."
"Hmm. Did you try beating her?"
"Well, that's what I do. Her fighting spirit must be broken."
"If that doesn't work, you could just lock her in the closet. If she gets hungry, just shove some crackers under the door. They're flat. They'll fit."
"I keed. I keed."
Note to Self: Watch It.
So, I am going to teach her to say "Viva la Revolucion!" and get her a beret. Said beret will have to be pink, of course, as she only likes pink right now, but it will do.
That'll make a great picture for this year's Nondenominational Gift-Giving Day card, don't you think? "Season's Greetings from the Reincarnation of Che Guevara!"
PS - Just as I was getting ready to post this, The Mimi of Doom/Death/Destruction/Care Bears just displayed a heretofore unnoticed ability. She managed to get the whole way from her room, down the stairs, into the basement, and right beside my chair without me hearing her, resulting in me turning my head a bit and getting the daylights scared out of me when I notice she's standing there.
Guess we have to add Stealth Ninja to her list of possible career moves.
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
It's That Time Again...
So I did not blog for like, one whole day, and got bitched at for it, and I am like, "OMG, people, shut up!"
So to make up for it, I have decided it is time to resurrect a feature of this blog that has been most popular in the past.
Yes, that's right.
It's time for....
Yes, I know you all missed it. You pined and pined. "When, Lord, WHEN's gonna be my turn to see Zombie's Mad Paint Skizillz back in action? WHEN?"
Well, today is your lucky day, bitches. You may all breathe a great big sigh of relief. In and....ouuuuuut.
So, let's get to it.
This is a story, entitled "Zombie and Zombie's Pants Have a Difference of Opinion." It is the touching tale of a girl that just wanted to get dressed for work but found that she had lost too much weight and her pants were just not fitting properly. Like so:
Now, this is not a terrible problem, you know, the Losing of the Weight, because this is what Zombie had intended to do by going to the gym and eating only sticks and cocaine, BUT! Zombie is po' folks and cannot afford to buy pants all the time, and did not expect to lose so much weight so fast. The Pants in Question had not been worn for three weeks, because Zombie had forgotten they existed, but this morning, Zombie had remembered, and OH! she wanted to wear those pants.
But alas and alack, when Zombie put the pants on, as depicted above, they were Way Too Big, and Zombie was not sure what to do, especially when this happened:
Zombie was at a loss. Zombie really wanted to wear these pants, but the pants obviously had a different idea. What was Zombie to do? Zombie does not own any such nonsense like a belt. That would be Too Practical. Zombie is decidedly Not Practical.
Zombie decided to put the pants back on anyway and just hitch them up every five seconds. This worked fine until she got to work and Office Mom said:
To which Zombie replied, "We have not the time in the world to get into all that is wrong with me, but if you are speaking of The Pants, they are Too Big. Obviously."
To which Office Mom replied, "You look so terrible!" And laughed her evil, tiny Guyanan woman laugh.
To which Zombie replied:
And Office Mom WAS jealous. Because really, who doesn't want to have the problem that her pants are Suddenly Too BIG? Do we not usually have the problem that the pants are Suddenly Too SMALL?
Zombie decided that from this day forward, she would only wear pants that were Obscenely Big, Falling-Off Big, so she could continue to run around the office, annoying All and Sundry with the fact that her pants were indeed, Way Too Big.
Sunday, May 14, 2006
Today is Mother's Day. Obviously.
I got the best Mother's Day present EVER. Would you like to know what it shwas? Okay, I tell you what it shwas.
A fucking fat lip, that's what it shwas.
I was laying on the couch and my tiny daughter sidles up to me.
"I will cuddle you, Mommy."
"Oh, that's nice, honey. How cute you are."
Her angelic face beams at me and she begins crawling up onto the couch and onto my stomach and then....WHAM, she headbutts me right in the mouth.
"AHHHHHHHH"! I scream, clapping a hand to my mouth and rolling onto my side, which dumps her onto the floor.
"AHHHHHHHH!" she screams back.
"AHHHHHHHHH MOTHERFUCKER!" I scream, pulling my hand away to see blood on my fingers.
"AHHHHHHHHH!" my son screams, for the hell of it.
"AHHHHHHHHHHH!" my daughter screams again.
"WHY IN HELL ARE YOU SCREAMING?" I scream. "I'M THE ONE THAT JUST GOT HER FACE MASHED IN."
"AHHHHHH I DON'T KNOW," my daughter screams.
"FUCK!" screams my son.
"YOU STOP THAT!" I scream at him.
"DON'T SCREAM AT ME, MOM!" he screams back.
"WELL, FUCK! THIS IS A GREAT FAMILY BONDING EXPERIENCE, ISN'T IT, YOU LITTLE INGRATES?"
"WHAT'S BONDAGE?" screams my daughter.
"YOU STOP THAT!" I scream at her.
We're an ideal family, as you can see. We should be filmed for posterity. It would make a great documentary. We could title it How NOT to Raise Functioning Members of Society. Then we could do a follow-up documentary ten years from now, showing how my son is in jail for being a serial killer and my daughter is a cracked-out teen hooker with five kids, and they'll cut to me, earnestly asking the camera, "Do you think it was the heroin I mixed in with their Cheerios? It wasn't that, was it? I thought it would help them sleep...everyone knows kids need a good night's sleep to grow up healthy and strong..."
I am the Best Mother Ever. Being the Best Mother Ever means you get a fat lip that still hurts 11 hours later, and then you have to drink a beer. I was hoping for a bourbon IV for Mother's Day this year, but apparently my wishes are not important enough to grant.
Thanks, Mother's Day Fairy. Thanks a whole fucking lot.
Saturday, May 13, 2006
Crisis in Zimbabwe: Bloody Fahgina Boogaloo
You may all be aware that I moonlight as a great humanitarian. If you were not aware of that, now you are. Part of being a great humanitarian means that I keep up on world crises. I have long been greatly interested in the atrocities and human rights violations that happen daily in the various countries of Africa. People starve and die over there in great numbers, every day. It's a damned shame, to put it mildly.
Knowing my interest in such things, Skippy so kindly sent me this link.
This may be the first time I've heard of a crisis in Africa and laughed. I am well aware that the "government" of Zimbabwe is made up of a nasty bunch of beady-eyed bastards. If I had my way, Mugabe would be taken out back and shot. Or slowly starved to death as he's let millions of his own people starve, while sitting underneath a sign that says "THERE IS NO FOOD SHORTAGE HERE," as his government claimed in 2004 when telling the United Nations and international donors that food aid was no longer necessary. I could rant on and on about the sad state of affairs for Zimbabweans, but other sites have collected the information in a much more succinct manner than I ever could. Because I am wordy and also insane. You can read about these things here and here, if you are so inclined.
But back to this article.
Seriously, what the fuck? Look, I am of the opinion that if there is a human rights violation or some sort of atrocity happening, it should definitely get media coverage. People should be aware of the hideous shit that happens to our fellow people all over the world, every day. Maybe, just maybe, if enough people become aware, something will maybe, just maybe, get done about it. I firmly believe that. But...
SHE has been arrested 22 times, tortured so badly that her front teeth were knocked into her nose and had an AK-47 thrust up her vagina until she bled. Thabitha Khumalo’s crime: to campaign against a critical shortage of tampons and sanitary towels in Zimbabwe, one of the least talked about and most severe side-effects for women of the country’s economic crisis.
Is this really a crisis? No tampons? That is the most severe side-effect for women due to the rusty pitchfork clusterfuck that is Zimbabwe's economy? I would think that the most severe side-effect would be the lack of food, but hey, what do I know?
Now her cause has been taken up in Britain by celebrities including the actors Anna Chancellor, Gillian Anderson, Prunella Scales and Jeremy Irons.
Well, if celebrities are backing it, it must be rational and good.
It is no secret that I think most celebrities are vapid-headed morons, but if a celebrity backing a worthy cause gets people to donate money, then that is fine with me. However, it should go without saying that for the celebrity support to make any real difference in human suffering, said celebrity should support a cause that actually means something.
If these celebrities want to make a difference in Zimbabwe, they should be addressing the real problems there, like the corrupt-as-all-hell government that is causing the economy to crumble and thereby effecting a giant lack of food and other basic necessities for its people, not to mention the arbitrary arresting, torturing and killing that is police-backed, or the suppression of the media and the people's rights to assemble and protest.
Okay, so not having tampons? That sucks, sure. But women did not have tampons for a long fucking time, and we all got along just fine without them. There is a reason they call it "being on the rag," which, I think, comes from the fact that women used to use rags. This is probably difficult for Agent Scully to understand, but see, you just get a rag, bleed on it, and when it's too bloody, you wash it out and use it again. That is not rocket science. I assume that there are some rags somewhere in Zimbabwe. No food, but rags should be plentiful.
Later this month they will launch “Dignity. Period!”, a fundraising campaign to buy sanitary products for Zimbabwe’s women. It will start with a night of entertainment at the 20th Century theatre in Notting Hill, west London, hosted by Stephen Fry.
I am enraged by this because the larger issues of Zimbabwe's problems are not being addressed here. To kick up a fuss and have a Fancy Maxi-Pad Benefit Dinner about this minor problem that is wandering around amongst a host of hugegantic problems is ridiculous to me. And don't even get me started on the name "Dignity. Period!"
But hey, don't worry, Jeremy Irons! If you focus on the shortage of Kotex for long enough while ignoring the fact that these women don't have anything to eat, the tampon crisis will eventually be no more. You know why? Because not having enough to eat will make your period stop and the fact that you haven't got a tampon to plug up your fahgina will become a moot point.
And are none of them concerned by the fact that this Khumalo woman was beaten and raped with a big gun over something stupid like complaining about not having a tampon? To me, the most important part of this is NOT that she doesn't have any tampons, but that her ass got beaten for saying so.
I envision Agent Scully and Jeremy Irons trekking to Harare with boxes of Always strapped to their backs. They enter a slum, they smile broadly. "Women of this slum!" they announce. "We have come to end your suffering! Do not get too close to us, however, as you are Poor and Dirty and we are Rich and Famous."
The women pile out of their homes. "These Rich and Famous people are here to end our suffering? They have brought us food to eat? Money? What?"
"We have come bearing Tampax!"
At this point, my vision ends with the women ripping off Agent Scully's legs and beating her to death with them for being an everloving retard, but that is probably not what would happen. Probably the women would just shake their heads and go back inside, muttering about dumbass white people.
So, let's take a look at what we've learned today, class:
I think that about covers it.
Friday, May 12, 2006
Wherein Zombie Makes a Confession
I have a confession to make. Oh yes. I have a deep, dark secret to share with all (3) of you.
This is a secret that has shamed me for many a year now. So many times have I wanted to just come out with it...so many times have I wanted to unburden myself, take this great weight from my shoulders, and admit it to the entire world.
So I'll just come right out and say it:
I love Lifetime movies.
I know. It is shocking. Sometimes, I wake in the night in a cold sweat because of it. How can this have happened? Where did my mother go wrong? Surely this is somehow her fault.
I just got done watching a Lifetime movie. I don't remember what it was called. It probably doesn't matter - they all have the same sorts of titles: Murder in a Small Town, The Other Woman, Her Best Friend's Husband, Pregnant at 16, Pregnant at 16 by the Other Woman's Best Friend's Husband Who Got Murdered in a Small Town.
All of the plots are basically the same. All of the actresses are Valerie Bertinelli or Tiffani Amber Thiessen or Corky's Sister from "Life Goes On."
But damned if I won't watch whatever movie they have on! I will watch it! I will sprawl on the couch with a can of Diet Coke and absorb myself in the trials and travails of indomitable women facing insurmountable crises that they will somehow, against all odds and in the space of two hours (actually less, since we will have many commercial breaks extolling the virtues of Monistat and herpes medication and diapers), manage to overcome with blazing triumph. And everyone cries and life is good again.
I have decided the reason I have no sympathy for anyone anymore is because I watch Lifetime movies. How can I feel bad for you and your stupid problem when Markie Post's ruggedly handsome son (played by Some Guy No One Knows Nor Will Ever See In Anything Again) may or may not have killed his girlfriend and his mistress and she is struggling with having unconditional love for her son while still abhorring the murders he may or may not have committed? How can I feel bad for you when The Hot and Popular Cheerleader As Played By Tori Spelling just got murdered because she was too hot and popular and Corky's Sister was everso jealous? Your angst and woe is NOTHING compared to the pain Tiffani Amber Thiessen suffered through when she got date raped and nobody believed her because the Ruggedly Handsome and Boyishly Charming Accused Date Rapist is really popular and all the girls love him and all the boys want to be his best friend because he is really good at sports, and also he has really good grades so all the teachers love him, so she just HAS to be lying, that cunt, that is until half of the girls in the town finally decide to come forward in the last 15 minutes of the movie to save the day and testify in court and put the Ruggedly Handsome/Boyishly Charming/Now Obviously Evil/Full of the Dickens Date Rapist in prison for 25 to life! You may THINK your life is crap, but you don't know what crap is until you're Corky's Sister and you've just seen your face on a milk carton and realized your whole life is a lie because some weird broad stole you out of a shoe store when you were five and raised you as her own and loved you like a real mother would and now you're having an identity crisis because you don't know who you are and you're a teenager and school is hard and your boyfriend is a spineless wimp but you love him anyway but how can you love anyone properly when you don't know who you are and you can't stop throwing stupid tantrums and the mental trauma is horrible and gut-wrenching!
I am wrung dry by Lifetime: Television for Women. And it got worse recently when they introduced the Lifetime Movie Network, because that channel is JUST Lifetime movies. All Lifetimes movies, all the time, my babies. It is glorious and sickening at the same time. I prefer now to watch the Lifetime Movie Network, since on the regular Lifetime: Television for Women channel, I am sometimes interrupted by 900 episodes of The Golden Girls, and while everyone knows I am a huge Blanche Devereaux fan, I really cannot be interrupted by ancient vaginas when I am trying to watch some broad get it on with some other broad's husband while stupid music plays in the background and you just know someone's life is about to get ruined, thankyouverymuch.
So this is why I am a cold-hearted cruel robot with no real human emotions, sportsfans. Lifetime movies did it.
Whew. You know, it felt good to get that off my chest. I should confess things more often.
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
Zombie Goes to the Gym, Part 2: Weight Loss Boogaloo
This might be incoherent, since I'm hopped up on Benadryl, but you can deal. Or not. Whatever.
So, I have been keeping to my diet and exercise thing. Even though I occasionally visit Bennigan's to consume fried chicken salads, I make sure I still go to the gym and do not eat any dinner on those days. After all, one fried chicken salad probably contains enough calories to last me a week. And I definitely do not have a ham donut, as tempting as it is.
Also, I have a Diet Coke with the fried chicken salad, so that totally evens things out.
At any rate, I am starting to notice some changes in my body. I don't know how much I've lost because I haven't weighed myself. I am trying to just go by how I feel and how my clothes are fitting me.
And I am feeling pretty good and my clothes are pretty loose, so I know I'm doing fine. It's even getting noticed by my coworkers.
See, I've always been a big girl, but I carry my weight pretty well. I know I definitely do not look like I weigh as much as I do. And I know how to dress to cover up the problem areas (yes, yes, okay, all areas are problem areas, but I am not wearing a burkha...yet).
I remember a conversation I had a few weeks ago with Office Mom.
Office Mom is this tiny angry woman from Guyana. She is Boss and Coworker #1's mother. She is a fucking trip to be around, let me tell you.
Office Mom is not a lady you want to fuck with. Office Mom may only be two feet tall, but she will hurt you. And then she will laugh. And then she will hurt you some more.
Part of Office Mom's charm is that, like me, she hates everything and everyone. This is probably why we get along so well. It is not unusual for Office Mom to barge into my office and announce in her cute little accent, "Zombie's Real Name, I HATE PEOPLE. HATE THEM." And then barge back out.
So, you can probably deduce that Office Mom is not one to keep her opinions to herself. She has less tact than I do, and that is saying something.
Office Mom: Good morning. You look nice today.
Zombie: Why, thank you.
Office Mom: See, you are a fat girl that knows how to dress properly.
Zombie: Uhm...thank you?
Office Mom: Think you take Secretary shopping some time, show her how a fat girl should dress?
(Secretary is not fat. She is chubby and tends to wear clothes that are too small for her, which make her look bigger than she really is. But she is very young, so I assume she will grow out of this phase at some point and that I do not need to take her shopping.)
Zombie: I think she's okay...
Office Mom: No! She fat and try to dress like she skinny! It is ridiculous. You, you are fat, but you know how to dress well. That is good. More fat girls should be like you.
Gee. Thanks, Mom.
I know this is her way of paying me a compliment, but really, I could do without that.
Anyway, now that I am losing weight and it is becoming noticeable, we have different exchanges.
Office Mom: I notice you are losing weight. This is good.
Zombie: Why, thank you.
Office Mom: You are welcome. Your face doesn't look as bad as it used to.
Aww, that Office Mom. She's all cuddly and stuff.
This is proving not to be as hard as I thought it was going to be. I have good motivation right now and seeing results really helps, too. Making sure I get my ass to the gym every day isn't always easy, but I keep going, so that's fine. And as long as I don't inhale an entire cheesecake or five ham donuts at some point, I think I can keep this up.
In other news, Tom Cruise still loves the cock. LOVES it. You can tell by the way he talks into this microphone.
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
Conversations with Zombie's Spawn
My spawn are some weird kids, let me tell you. They infuriate the hell out of me a lot of the time, but they're also cute and hysterically funny.
Case in point:
Yesterday, I decided it was time for a haircut for the both of them. So we went out onto the back deck, and I trimmed my son's hair up, and then began to trim my daughter's bangs.
"What are you doing, Mom?" my daughter asks.
"Uh...trimming your bangs? Hold still."
"What's bangs?" my son asks.
"Uh...hair on your forehead," I say, distracted.
"Oh," says my son. "Do I have bangs?"
"No, you don't have bangs," I say.
"Only GIRLS have bangs," my daughter pronounces.
"Oh," says my son, thoughtfully. "I get it. Girls have bangs and boys have testicles."
Monday, May 08, 2006
If You Deep-Fry It, They Will Come
I went out to lunch with some coworkers today.
We went to Bennigan's, which we are prone to do, as we are on a mission to outsmart them. You see, they have this 15-minute-lunch-thing, where they tell you if they don't bring your food out in 15 minutes, it's free. We keep taking them up on this offer, but alas, the wily, wily cooks at Bennigan's are speedy and have yet to fuck it up and give us free food. But! One day...one day, they will screw up and our lunch will be free. I just know it. I can feel it in my bones.
In the meantime, it gives me an excuse to consume fried chicken salads.
The first time we went to Bennigan's, it was just me and Coworker #1. She ordered a hugegantic burger and I ordered aforementioned chicken salad.
"Man," she said, when our food came, "I'm eating a burger and you're being good and having a salad."
"Uh huh," I said, "This is a bowl of fried chicken, ranch dressing, shredded cheese, bacon, and hard-boiled eggs...wait, there's a piece of romaine. So it's totally healthy. If I hadn't seen that piece of romaine, I might've wondered about my caloric intake here. But no, it is healthy. And that makes me awesome and you a fat pig. Ha!"
It's great to be superior.
Anyway, today, Coworker #1, Secretary, Secretary's Boyfriend and I all went to Bennigan's. We did not outsmart them, as usual, but we did make it to 12 minutes, so it gives us hope that, one day, we will have free food.
Secretary's Boyfriend ordered this:
If you don't know what that is and have never had the pleasure of eating it, it is a Monte Cristo sandwich.
The Monte Cristo sandwich is a culinary delight consisting of ham, turkey, swiss cheese and American cheese.
But wait! It gets better.
Said sandwich is then battered and deep-fried, dusted with powdered sugar, and served with some raspberry jam.
Basically, it is a ham donut.
A greasy, battery, jammy, hammy donut. And really, friends and neighbors, what could be better than that?
When Secretary's Boyfriend received his plate and surveyed the gastronomical treat before him, his eyes widened in awe.
"Wait...is this deep-fried? And...is that...powdered sugar? Raspberry jam? Served...with a pickle and french fries? Oh my god!!"
He tore into his Monte Cristo with glee. We watched him consume half of it. Then he looked up, eyes wide and shiny.
"I can't believe I'm actually eating this. It's so disgusting, it's good."
If I ever open a restaurant, that's going to be my slogan. "Eat at Zombie's: It's So Disgusting, It's Good."
So, a good time was had by all. Bennigan's plays excellent songs at very loud decibels, so we all sang along with the theme to The Neverending Story, followed by Peter Gabriel's "Sledgehammer," which appears to play every time I step foot into this establishment.
Perhaps they know how I love that song and cannot keep from singing along, loudly and badly, whenever I hear it. Perhaps they play it to lull me into a false sense of security in regards to finally acquiring my free food. While I am busy going on about fruitcages, those wily, wily Bennigan's cooks are teleporting my fried chicken salad to the table with two minutes to spare.
Anyway, that is the extent of anything interesting happening to me today.
Sad, isn't it?
Saturday, May 06, 2006
In Which Zombie Solves Her Book Problem
If you read the previous post entitled "Zombie Leads an Exciting Life," then you know I have book issues.
Lots of book issues. Supersized book issues. I am the literary equivalent of the Crazy Cat Lady. But I have found a way to resolve the fire hazard that has become my house.
I initially thought of selling them off, but that will take too much time and effort for not much money. We thought about having a garage sale, or perhaps putting some ads on Craigslist ("For twenty bucks, you can come to my house and haul away as many books as your hot little hands can carry. Don't worry about hurrying. I have enough books to let the entire tri-county area haul away as many as they want and will still not have made a dent in my inventory") but that seemed like too much work, too.
But then! Something happened.
I got an email from my boss, who is organizing a book drive, to send books to Mississippi, for folks that lost theirs during Katrina.
I don't know about y'all, but I was horrified/annoyed at the whole Katrina thing.
I was horrified at the extent of the storm and how much damage it did. I was horrified that people were living like animals down there - that it looked like a third world nation - and all of this right here in my own country: The United States of America, Land of the Free, Home of the Brave (but only if you are a fat, white rich man). I was horrified at how badly the rescue efforts were handled and horrified at how people were behaving. I was also horrified by the images I saw on TV - little kids and old people, living in filth and starving, having lost everything.
That's some traumatic shit right there.
I was annoyed that it turned into a "race issue," however. Granted, most of the people that were left behind in New Orleans were black - but that is a city of many black people. The more important issue, to me, was that those that were left behind were poor.
Poverty is not something that is confined to specific races or ethnic groups. Poverty is not confined to specific age groups or gender groups. Poverty crosses all barriers that way. You can argue with me, if you want, but I'm sticking to that. Having grown up poor as dirt (and still not quite a stellar example of financial independence), I know what poverty is. I know what being hungry is, and what having to go without is. And I am white. Very white. Glow-in-the-dark white.
If Katrina had somehow managed to whack into my old town in Pennsylvania, we would've seen much of the same stuff. And that town is predominantly white. I think there was one black family there when I went to high school.
While whiteness is prevalent in that town, so is extreme poverty. When Pennzoil, Quaker State and Wolf's Head all moved out of town within a 2 year period, everything went to hell, economically speaking, and the area wasn't doing that well to begin with. The only jobs left to people were working at the three telemarketing firms in the area or working at Wal-Mart.
I don't have to tell y'all that Wally World isn't exactly synonymous with "living wage" or "job security." And forget anything like "medical insurance" or "basic human kindness." In fact, I would venture to say that most jobs of the Wally World ilk are not big on any of that. But that is a topic for another time.
The people in that town are poor. If Katrina had bitchslapped that town, we would've seen the same images we saw in New Orleans, only with white faces. The people there suffer through the same hardships poor people everywhere do - a lack of the means to support oneself and one's family in a sufficient manner and a definite lack of resources to turn to in the event of an emergency, whether it be a medical problem or a large hurricane barrelling towards you at light speed.
While I definitely feel for those that lost everything in this storm, I could not, at the time and even now, help but be annoyed that it turned into a "race issue" when the more important issue of poverty in this country could've been seriously addressed for once. I felt that harping on race detracted from the bigger issue we face here.
I suppose it had something to do with the fact that poverty isn't something we like to think about existing in this "great" country of ours. After all, we are an incredibly rich nation. In theory, there is more than enough to go around for everyone, so anyone that has nothing is probably just lazy, right? The American Dream is within everyone's grasp, we are all taught from the time we are born. If you work hard and are patient and diligent, you will be rich, or comfortable, at the very least. You will succeed in life.
And this is true for some people. My grandfather is an excellent example of that. He was born very poor, an immigrant from Hungary. He grew up in a tiny coal town in Pennsylvania, where his father worked in the mines. My great-grandfather, whom I never met, worked hard every day of his life, to support himself and his family. My grandfather got out of that life, through sheer determination. He put himself through college. He worked for AT&T for many years (next time you're outside, look at the phone poles...see that little black box up there? My grandfather was part of the team that designed that little black box). He eventually ended up working for the Department of Energy in D.C., and was very successful. He is retired now, but still does consultant work for them. That is, y'know, inspiring, sure.
The fact remains, however, that some people work hard all of their lives - only to just scrape by. Though my grandfather succeeded in life, his father never got to have a nice house or not worry about money. And it was certainly not for lack of hard work.
For the 37 million Americans that live below the poverty line, it is not easy to drag oneself up by the proverbial bootstraps. Public education in this country is abysmal, we lack decent health care for everyone, and sometimes, the options for bettering yourself never materialize, no matter how hard you work or how much you strive for it.
For the 37 million Americans that live below the poverty line, life is certainly not easy. Any little problem can be a major setback. Missing a single day of work can jeopardize your ability to pay the rent when you live paycheck to paycheck as many of these people do. Contemplate for a moment, if you will, trying to pay for decent child care when you only make 6 dollars an hour (if you're lucky). Forget about ever getting sick, since you have no health insurance and certainly can't afford a trip to the doctor. If you are able to manage to afford a trip to the doctor, you had better hope you don't need any medicine, because that will definitely be out of your financial reach. No, you will wait and wait until it is too bad to handle anymore, and you will end up in the ER, and the bill will be even bigger. If you miss work because you or your child are sick, then you are in even bigger trouble still.
The irony in this situation, though, is that these 37 million Americans are the ones we rely on every day - they clean our houses, flip our burgers, bag our groceries and vacuum our offices. Without them, who would ring up our purchases at the mall? Who would mop the floors at our children's schools? Those we need the most, we ignore. We do not meet their needs, when we definitely have the resources to do so. We do not care about the problem enough to even talk about it, let alone find a workable solution.
As mentioned before, I am not a stellar example of financial independence. I work full time, I have several side projects, and my children get Social Security survivors benefits from the death of their father, sure. We get by, but sometimes just barely. I live paycheck to paycheck. I do not have a car of my own and am reliant on my roommate to get me where I need to be. If Katrina had rolled over my house, you would've seen me and my children and my dog sitting on the roof with a sign screaming for help.
At any rate, I am donating as many of my books as possible to this drive that my company is handling. It is probably not unknown that I think books are vital. Teaching a child to read is the greatest gift you can give him or her. Through books, people learn. Through books, people are shown a wider realm that they may not ever experience otherwise. Through books, people can be made to laugh, to cry, to think, to dream. In short, through books, people become more aware.
And being aware is a crucial first step in combatting this country's problems.
If my books can be put to good use, then I am happy to unload them. I might not even cry as much, since I know they will be appreciated.
I may not be able to singlehandedly effect a national discussion on the issue of poverty in this country, but I do know I can give a little kid a copy of The Cat in the Hat. I can give a high schooler a copy of On the Road and inspire him as I was inspired by that book when I was in high school. I can give a middle-aged mother a copy of Without by Donald Hall and show her beauty in its purest form.
That, I think, is no small thing.
If anyone is interested in helping with this endeavor, please contact me and we'll see what can be done.
Thursday, May 04, 2006
So, I mentioned the "brain fog" thing before.
Fibromyalgia has a tendency to make the person suffering from it...confused. And quite possibly retarded.
I often forget what I am talking about in the middle of a sentence and then have to cover for it gracefully, like so:
Zombie: Hello, Zombie's Boss.
Zombie's Boss: Hello. What are you up to?
Zombie: I have finished... *long pause as brain gives out* ...the thing.
Boss: What thing?
Zombie: Uhm...you know...the thing.
Zombie: The thing. With...the stuff.
Boss: You finished the thing with the stuff.
Boss: The website updates?
Zombie: YES! That thing. With update...stuff.
Boss: You hurt my head.
Zombie: I am sorry.
Luckily, my boss is a forgiving sort.
In an effort to combat this problem, I acquired a little notebook and handy pen, for with which to write down lists and make notes, so I know what I should be doing at work.
I thought this was a brilliant idea until I realized that I don't know what my notes mean. Oh, my handwriting is legible, it's just that the notes themselves are indecipherable because I keep thinking I am a super genius and make up my own shorthand that changes from day to day, and leaves me never knowing what the fuck I am talking about.
Zombie: Hmm...why did I put a little star by this? Is that important? Does that mean it is urgent or that it can wait til tomorrow? Shit...Zombie's Boss, do you know why I put this star by this thing?
Boss: You are hurting my head again.
Zombie: I am sorry. Note to Self: Do Not Write Notes, Because You Are Quite Possibly Retarded.
I worry I am going senile sometimes. I tell people the same stories over and over again, sometimes right in a row. I am like a little old man, sitting on a park bench, muttering about 'nam and biscuits to passersby.
Zombie: I can't find this crap in this stupid spreadsheet! I have been looking for it forEVER. I hate Excel. HATE IT SO MUCH.
Zombie's Coworker: Why don't you just use the search function?
Zombie: Oh yeah.
But maybe I am not turning into a senile old man. Maybe I am turning into my Aunt Tricia, who spends most of her time consuming mass quantities of wine and staggering around her richly-appointed living room, harassing people with her Super Important Problems, like where she left her "pocketbook" and has anyone seen her shoes and what happened to the dog? Didn't we have a dog? Where is the dog? You ungrateful little freeloading bastards, I don't have time for your crap, I can't remember what my name is!
I am not related to this woman by blood, but I fear I may end up like her if this brain fog thing keeps up much longer. I will be the Crazy Aunt. I will grab my 9 year old neices, try to force them to have sips of my Manhattan, and then breathe all over them as I cry about my ovaries.
(She actually did that to me, once. It was rather frightening. She had me cornered on my grandparents' deck, too, and I couldn't get away.
"Do you know what it's like to be 40, honey? Do you? No, you don't, you're only 9. Here have a sip of this stuff, it's really excellent. Your grammy sure can mix a drink, yes she can. Anyway, so I'm 40. Did you hear me? 40, can you imagine? And I'm not pregnant yet! My ovaries have given up the ghost, is what it is. My ovaries are slowly shriveling up and dying and I am not going to have any babies. NO BABIES, honey, can you IMAGINE? Maybe it's not me, maybe it's your uncle, maybe his little swimmers aren't - ha ha - what am I saying? Here have another drink. Where are my Virginia Slims? DAVIIIIIIIID, where are my cigarettes, you bastard? Where are you going, honey, you need to sit right here with your Auntie Trish, yes you do."
Later, I said to my mother, "Mom, keep her AWAY from me. She's, like, talking about having sex with UNCLE DAVID. I am SCARED."
She did end up having some babies shortly thereafter. Two of them. Poor kids.
If any of you have had the dubious pleasure of speaking to me in person (on the phone or in IM or perhaps email) then you know that I am prone to talking a fat lot of nonsense all the time, most of which has nothing to do with anything and often doesn't make sense.
Some say this is just part of my charm.
Little do they know that I am actually like that because I am retarded.
So now you know.